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May 31, 2005

Taken Care Of

My second to last day in Budapest I went out to a cafe and drank beers and shots of Unicum (and not the wimpy Jaegermeister tasting stuff) with a bunch of 20 somethings. Just like in the States most were students or had fairly unglamorous jobs. One, however was a fashion designer and another flight attendant.
Actually, even that one is rather unglamorous, her place of work is not behind a cash register, it's outside of a cubicle and a restaurant -- no matter that the job is bringing people food and beverages. And that's pretty much what they do. Right?
That's what I thought, so I didn't think too much of it when the flight attendant gave a little shriek of excitment when she realized when I was flying home. "My friend will be working that flight! Oh! Wow! I will have to have her take care of you."
"Yeah. Cool."
Really. I didn't know what to say. How much freedom do they have in their jobs? I thought. Maybe she could bump me up to first class. Then I could get...Whatever it is they get in first class. Then two stray thoughts collided in forefront of my mind: Are the rumors true? The ones about the complimentary oral sex in first class? And /Is that what it means to be "taken care of."

When I got on the plane My excitement had almost entirely dissappeared. They're no way they give blow jobs to Everyone in first class. So it was only with half interest I looked over all the flight attendants.
There's not a single one under 35. Damn. And the one at the lower end was a short, stocky woman that looked to have passed up her true calling as a circus clown. Her deep burgundy hair was spiky on each side of her head ala Bozo the clown, and it even looked like Bozo's make-up artist came out of retirement for the occassion. The blue, white, yellow, green and red smock-like uniform didn't exactly scream non-clown either.

An hour or two into the flight I woke from my pre-packaged dinner nap with a face not more than a foot away. It's then I noticed The Tammy Faye Baker eyelashes. How could I have missed those before? My, thankfully unspoken, question came to me as did hers. "Brian?"
"Yes?"
"My friend told me to take care of you on the flight. I am so sorry I was running around until now, but do you need anything?"
"Some water would be fine. Thanks." I don't know why, but I felt a little bashful asking for another glass of wine. Her co-worker had already given me 2 and the meals hadn't come around yet.
"What? Are you sure that's it?" She must have sensed my hesitation.
"Well, some wine if you have some back there."

She came back a mintue later with a glass of wine and a 1.5 liter bottle of water. "There you go. .. What is that?" she said looking down at my seat.
"Oh? This? Um." I hesitated. "It's a flask." I thought I might have been breaking some sort of rule bringing my own liquor onto the plane.
"What is in it? Cognac?"
"No. Whiskey?"
"Ok. I will fill it up for you. Before I could even feign interest in stopping her she had grabbed the flask and marched to the back room.

After a while she must have tired of running back and forth to get me wine because she came by and set and unopened bottle of wine on the empty seat next to me and said, You seem thirsty."

Posted by calculatoronfire at 08:40 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

May 27, 2005

Waking up Too Early

I tried my best to order coffee in Hungarian at the small stand in the market. I think I passed, but in my early-morning pre-coffee stupor I pulled out the wrong amount of change and set it before the woman. I half expected it to be wrong -- for her to add some amount to the total on account of the sugar I'd asked her to put in my espresso.
She looked at me as if I had indeed given her the wrong amount, so I took one of the two coins - the one I knew not to be 50 forint - and I replaced it with another. Another 10 forint coin. The total hadn't changed, it was still 70, and I still had 60 forint on the counter.

I walked around through the market hall looking for gifts for friends at home. I looked through every fifth or seixth stand which displayed its goods behind glass -- all of them being closed except the vegetable stands downstairs.
And the supermarket in the basement!

I hurried down to the basement to do a little shopping in the half hour before the gift store-type stores closed upstairs. I figured I would find some different foodstuffs and maybe liquor to bring home.
I found a generic energy drink, BulDozer, an imitation Red Bull. I bought a few along with a can of kidney beans I couldn't refuse despite not even faintly needing or wanting a can of kidney beans. The smiling coin purse on the can - the coin purse meant to tell me that the can would not cost much and keep my coin purse fat and happy - forced me to buy it. I also got a bag of coffee beans and some candies.
When I left the store witout a bag and my arms and hands full I decided I should drink one of the BulDozers. It wasn't that I felt I needed the energy, I had just had a double espresso a couple minutes before. I just wanted to get it over with. I didn't want to carry the thing.
I thought it was a bit better than Red Bull. I was basically the same thing, it was just a little sweeter.
I also that it was the BulDozer, and the coffee, that made my nose drip blood.
Slowly.
I didn't know what it was at first, I just felt something. Then I noticed it was a bit of a trickle, if that. It was more like a pin prick. The blood came slowly and cleanly.
I tried to figure out why and all I could guess that it was the sudden immense dose of caffiene. Along with taurine, guarana and whatever else it is they put in those drinks.
So I headed directly over to the bar -- one of the few places open at 730 am -- and I found a cure for my ailment in the form of a half liter glass of beer.

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May 25, 2005

Maybe I'll Eat Kosher Today

I needed to get to New York City in order to get my flight to Budapest a couple weeks ago, so I decided to take the bus. I've had good luck with the bus. I mean I've met a lot of crazies and enjoyed their banter while on the bus, then ran like hell from them once we arrived. Unfortunately the bus to New York was pretty empty and uneventful; the only thing noticed happening was the little girl in the seat behind me reaching between the seats and poking me in the arm every so often.

I arrived in Manhattan just in time to catch the end of a parade. I would have liked to stay and watch the straglers - a few crazy men, tarot card readers, guys manning the Nuts 4 Nuts stands - but I had to get to the airport. I had to catch my flight.
Not that there wouldn't be another, but my dad was going to meet me when I arrived in Budapest, and when he's on vacation - like he was - he has nothing to do but whine it seems.

He passed the entire week or so that we spent at my GrandMother and Grandfather's house whining to his mom about how she treated me better. "Mo-om. He got a bigger piece." "Mom. How come he gets three meatballs and I only get two?" "What am I? Chopped liver?"

Last time we met up at his parents house he whined to me about how people orderKosher meals on the plane always get their meals first. "Have you noticed how they always get their's first? And bigger portions too. I should order one next time."

I thought that wasn't a half bad idea, so when I ordered my ticket over the innerweb and was given the option to select - no, almost told to select - a special meal I ordered a Kosher meal.

I didn't think anything of it until the meal cart came down the aisle. Oh boy! I wonder if it's chicken or pasta or beef or pasta.
Oh. That's right. I ordered a Kosher meal.
I wonder what's in a kosher meal. I wonder what makes it kosher.

See, I'm not Jewish. I don't know anything about eating kosher except that kosher pickles are pretty good. I don't think I met anybody Jewish until I was in college. I only did it for the quicker, bigger plate of food. And at the time I ordered it I didn't think anything of ordering a Kosher meal, but then surrounded by Orthodox Jews -- I may not have grown up knowing any Jews, but I still knew about the funny sideburns. The hats. The beards. The yamikas -- well, I started to fell a little uneasy.

Will they try to convert me? No. They'd think I'm jewish. What if they try to talk to me about the Torah? Could I tell them I just wanted more food? Is eating Kosher a sin if you're not Jewish? Will they get violent?

Then the kosher meals came -- and as promised, they came first. But they skipped over me. Despite being hungry as sheol - that's hebrew for hell - I was pretty glad when they skipped over me.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 01:34 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

May 24, 2005

Back

I'm back from my little vacation. I'd love to tell you about it, but right now I've got a ton of chocolate to eat.

Sea you soon!
I swear.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 11:34 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

May 12, 2005

Archives

I added some archives from last November.
Maybe I'll add some more later, but for now I'm headed out to the corner lesbian bar.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 09:30 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Bus to the Airport

I'm going on vacation next week. I got a flight out of New York City, but decided not to fly there to catch my flight. Instead I'm taking a Greyhound.

The drive won't be that long, but I'm hoping to meet a few people.

Last time I rode a bus to the airport I met a Canadian amateur boxer that claimed to be a "hit" in the inter-racial chat rooms. He promised to "throw a couple" my way, but I nothing ever came of that. I'm sort of relieved. I don't know exactly what to do when someone throws a woman at me.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 09:06 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Bussed to the Party

There were occassions, even before I got the death-trap that was my first car, that I wanted to get out of town. Without any way of my own to get around I opted for the bus.

The first few times I rode the bus I avoided even eye contact everybody. I didn't want to be bothered by the other passengers I had no interest in meeting. After a few trips, however, my outlook changed. I was struck by the --well, oddities, I guess -- that rode the bus with me. The guy with the bald scabby head that constantly jerks his hands in front of him and tries so hard to keep from blurting out what sounds like, "seven." (Or could it be "satan?") The couple in matching Aerosmith t-shirts that can't keep making that disgusting
sucking noise during their perpetual kiss. The obese woman that keeps feeding kibbles to the dog she snuck in inside her carry-on bag.

As much fun as it was watching the people on the bus they were not my main interest. My main interest lay at my destination. When I took the bus I was usually going from Chicago to spend the weekend hanging out with my brother and my friend Josh in such style that when all was said and done none of us would remember any of what happened.

By and large we were successful, too.

I was usually met at the bus stop and ushered back to a dorm room where heavy drinking would commence. Then we would stumble off to a party, usually in someone's basement. There I would either spend my time leaning on the ubiquitous keg or wander around the party sing Van Morrison songs in a faux accent.

I remember one weekend -- and yes, I admit, remembering means I failed in my mission -- I met a girl that I recognized, even through my beer goggles, as hot. Or maybe it was because of my beer goggles. Either way, at the time I thought she was hot so I pulled out all the stops on my use of drunken, cheesy pick-up lines. To my surprise she reciprocated. She even seemed charmed by the drunken conversation.

We talked for a while and I found out she lived in Chicago and was going to be there the next weekend. We decided to meet up then. I needed her number. So when I saw my friend Josh come by I told him to go get me paper and a pen which he came back a while later.
I got the girl's number and the three of us chatted for a few minutes until she had to leave with her friend. Josh and I stayed only to find out that the girls had most likely left because the keg was tapped.

I remember leaving. Sort of. What I clearly remember next was waking up hungover.

Bleary-eyed we hypothesized how exactly we got home. A rather short conversation that quickly moved to what we remembered of the night before.
"Dude. You got that girl's number."
"Oh yeah. She was hot."
"Yeah."
"Where'd I put it?" I checked my pants and found a pieces of paper folded up. "Here it is."
I unfolded the paper and found two numbers one in Madison, WI, where we were, and one in Chicago. "She gave me both numbers."
"Awesome. When are you going to call her."
"I don't know. I've got to before next week. We were supposed to meet up. She lives near my school."
"That's cool."
"Yeah. -- Do you remember her name?"
"No. Didn't she put it on there?"
"No."
"You sure? They usually do."
"I don't see it."
"Maybe on the other side."
I unfolded the paper and found a name. The name was next to another number. "Who's this?"
"Who?"
"Sarah?"
"I don't know."
"You didn't get this number?"
"No. I never touched the paper."
"I didn't get any other number."
"You were talking to that other girl."
"What other girl?"
"Sarah, I guess."
"I don't remember that. Was she hot?"
"I think the other girl was hotter."
"What's her name though?"
"I don't know. Just call."
"But what if I get her roommate? Who am I supposed to ask for?"

We both tried as hard as we could to remember the girl's name, but we came up with nothing. In order to an awkward conversation I never called, but about a month later my brother called me up. Both of us were bored so we talked for quite a while.
"Oh, yeah. Jen says .'hi.'"
"Who's Jen?"
"A girl that lives in my dorm."
"So? Do I know her?"
"I guess. She said she met you at a party."
"Ok. I've met lots of people at parties."
"Yeah, but you were supposed to go out with her."
"Wait. Is she hot? Long dark hair? Hispanic, maybe?"
"Yeah. Jen."
"Shit. I should have just called. They're all named Jen."
"What?"

I explained about meeting her at the party but forgetting her name and never calling.
"Why didn't you ask Josh?"
"I did. Neither of us could remember her name."
"He knows her."
"No, he doesn't"
"Yeah he does. Like three months ago I walked into my room and they were making out on my couch."
"What?"
"Yeah. It was fucked up. My roommate wasn't here. I just got from class and he and Jen were making out on my couch."
"So he met her before but he was so drunk he couldn't remember her name?"
"Or maybe he never knew it."

Posted by calculatoronfire at 06:46 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

May 11, 2005

Options

Driving home from a friend's house Monday night a tranvestite hooker called to me through my open window. "This is hard" she said in her obviously male voice. "It's real hard" she said grabbing her crotch. I pretended not to notice, but in looking away I accidently made eye contact with the 5'6" pimp in the 6'+ "woman's" shadow. Luckily it was a short red light.

Last night my neighbor asked me to drive me to her best friend's house. Her best friend had relapsed into drug addiction after seven years of being clean. The friend was being evicted at 7pm and my neighbor wanted me to drive her there in my truck so she could get to her friend's furniture before other people stole it.
"Oh, you just need me to help you pick it up so you can store it for her?"
"No. She just got a new bedroom set with her income tax return last year, and I want it. I ain't about to let some stranger get it."
"You're going to steal it from your friend?"
"Well, if I don't someone else is."

There's always something to do in Baltimore.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 02:33 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

May 06, 2005

Public Art Pt 2

"Dude." Of course I said "Dude." It was the late 1980's and saying "dude" was the rad thing to do. "Come in here and check this out."
"No way. I don't want to look at your shit" my brother replied.
"What? No. You've got to check this out. Come on." I called to him again from the door to the men's room. "This is so awesome."
We were in Midway Airport in Chicago on our way to Washington DC and I hit the bathroom during a shortlayover. I don't remember much about the bathroom. Maybe the stalls were gray, maybe they were blue. All I know is they weren't black; the drawing was black.

All the urinals were occupied, so I went into the first available stall and found a drawing that covered nearly the entire wall. I first noticed that it contained a naked woman - an naked woman bent over by...A teenage mutant ninja turtle?
The perspective was perfect. To the left was one of the turtles. I couldn't really tell which one, the artist only drew the back of his shell and the back of his head. Then in front of him was April and her hands and knees. We only got a glimpse of her body, blocked as it was by the turtle, but it was clear she had an impressive one; in a speech bubble above the two of them read, "Oh, April, you have an ass like a pizza." The rest of the turtles and Splinter were on the far right of the picture -miniature figures cheering on their buddy from a distance.

When I got back to school after my summer vacation and trip to DC the main topic of converstaion was what each of us did over the summer vacation. "I went camping in Canada, what did you do?"
"I went to Washington DC and stepped in wet cement right outside of the Supreme Court building." This got me thinking againg about my trip, and in one class where I got to sit next to a friend of mine I told him about the bathroom art I saw in the Airport.
"So it was one of the turtles..."
"Wha?"
"Like this." I drew him a the picture. I took time trying my best to make it as close to the original as possible.
"That's awesome."
"I know."
"Give it to me."
"OK." I handed my notebook over to Dan, my friend. He took out a pencil and erased something, wrote something and then handed it back to me laughing.
What did he change? I thought. Oh, there it is. He wrote in Madeline instead of April. "Who's Madeline?"
"Pishaw. Give it to me."
He took the notebook in his hand again and drew a mole on "Madeline's" face. A big mole on her uper right lip - she was looking back at the penetrating turtle.
"That's awesome!" I said laughing now. Madeline. That was our teacher's first name. Madeline Moon. The mole gave it away.

We spent the rest of the class drawing pictures of Mrs. Moon with each of the different turtles. Sure they all looked the same, but they all had different weapons that doubled as sex toys given the right position. Even Splinter, the elderly turtle.

By the end of class we had several pages of drawings done. I snapped my notebook shut at the sound of the bell, so that no other students would see our (dare I say) masterpieces. Then I hurried to my next class. Math! Joel is in my math class.
Joel was one of my best friends and I knew he would be impressed by the drawings. Not only because of their sexually explicit nature, but because of the craftsmanship. The pencil strokes. The shading. The way we attended to even the smallest detail.

I looked aroudn to make sure there were no teachers present, no goody-goodies either, and whipped open my notebook. "Joel Check this out."
"That's awesome. Is that Mrs. Moon?"
"Yeah."
I flipped to the next page. "That's very nice."
What? Who was that? I turned around to find myself face to face with our math teahcer, Mrs Whatshername - Sparrow or something.
I shut my notebook faster than I knew possible thinking it would erase her memory what she'd just seen.
"Give me that."
"What?"
"That drawing."
"Um." I flipped open the notebook to a page I was sure didn't contain a drawing. They were all together at the back of the notebook, I was sure of that and I was sure I could find them, but I wasn't sure if I could find the one. The one she had just seen, and I didn't want to open to the wrong one and let her know there was more than one drawing. "I can't find it. I'll find it and give it to you."
"Just give me the notebook."
Oh. Shit. I'm in so much trouble. I reluctantly handed her the notebook.
"I'm looking forward to getting a better look at that."

At the end of the day Mrs. Whatshername came into my homeroom. We had a period at the end of the day when we could work on our homework. My period was interrupted when she called me into the hallway. "Brian. Here's your notebook back. There were some interesting drawings in here."
"Drawings?" Shit. She found all of them. How could she not?
"I'm sure your parents will be interested in seeing them."
"I don't know about that."
"Well, we'll find out. I want you to take this envelope. There's a note inside I want your parents to sign. I want it back tomorrow."
I took the envelope in my sweaty, nervous hands. Shit. Shit. Shit. I am in so much trouble. It was one thing to get caught with drawings at school, but to have to talk to my parents about anything of a sexual nature. That was sure to be torture.

I didn't want to show the envelope to my parents, but Mrs Whatshername - Robin, maybe? - said I had to or she'd have me suspended from school. The whole way home I debated which parent to show the envelope. And its contents, each page individually numbered, with a note from the teacher - in her handwriting - giveing an inventory of the other contents. The inventory needed to be signed, along with every one of the pictures,and returned the next day.
My dad was scary. He'd yell like hell and I didn't want that on top of a sex talk. But my mom. She'd get frantic. She'd get religious. "Jesus never drew naked pictures of his teachers." Then she'd start with the "Sex is dirty" talk, probably crying.
I decided crying would be easier to tolerate. I'd show her the pictures before my dad got home from work and then hide in my room the rest of the night.

"I can't sign these. This is disgusting. I can't believe my son would do something like this. I feel like vomitting. -- You make me feel like vomitting right now. That's how I feel. I can't sign these. I refuse to sign them."
"But you have to or I get suspended."
"That is too much like condoning."
"Could you at least write a note saying you saw them? I don't want to get supended, Mom."
"It's not my doing that will get you suspended. You drew these horrendous pictures. I don't want them leaving my house."
"But, mom. Can you at least write a note saying you saw them and say how disgusting you thought they were?"
"I guess I can do that."

I think she still has the pictures to this day. They're hidden away in a filing cabinet in a folder called "Brian's drawings."

Posted by calculatoronfire at 05:35 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

Nothing New

I took my dogs into the empty lot at the opening of my alley this morning. We walked through the lot and found nothing new. We walked through the next lot and found nothing new.

I had mixed emotions about not finding any new trash. On the one hand I was happy there was nothing new. I thought perhaps the neighborhood had reached some sort of stasis. On the other hand I felt a little dejected; there was nothing new. The streak was broken.
I craned my neck and squinted my eyes looking for something new and then I noticed...

I kept walking and as I did I saw a new pile of trash poke out from being an overgrown weed that has reached a tree-like state. A toilet. The innards of a wash machine. scrap pieces of plywood, a pile of miscellanea. Right in front of a boat. A new Boat!

Someone dropped off a boat in the night! And not a small one either. It's about 15-20 feet long.

And just in time for the summer boating season. First come first served.

(I will write a part 2 to my public art entry)

Posted by calculatoronfire at 10:09 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

May 05, 2005

Small but Special

I stepped outside today to find a rather small, but special pile of trash had found its way to my neighborhood.
Well, it wasn't that small and it wasn't that special. It was a pile of old woodwork, pipes (pvc and galvanized steel), carpet and padding and a bunch of other junk, some bagged some not.
It was special because instead of dumping it in the empty lot the city doesn't clean the dumpers left it in the road.

Oh, and someone left a small, plastic rocking horse.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 07:49 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

May 04, 2005

Wednesday Garbage

Last night must have been a sportmen's invitational, mostly sporting goods showed up. With a quick look I found:
Two seatless bicycles, one adult one child. (The adult bike also sans wheels and chain.)
A golf bag (red) stuffed inside a gas range.

Too bad about the range, I was just looking for one.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 08:44 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Public Art Pt 1

I don't remember when exactly it was I got a copy of "How to be a Cartoonist" for Christmas. I do remember it was when I was in grade school. I couldn't have been too early on because I remember going straight to the How to draw naked women section, and it couldn't have been too late because I had the book for quite some time when I made my artistic debut in the first few days of 8th grade.

The summer before I entered 8th grade was a formulative time for me artistically. My mom decided that the family had gone much much too long without a good summer vacation so she gathered up the kids and took us out from Wisconsin to Washington DC. It was there I saw the impressive monuments, the architectural diversity not found in small town Wisconsin, the art museums. We saw them all, along with the White House, the Capitol and the Supreme Court (where I put my high-top Brooks clad footprint in wet cement!), on foot.
Our base of operations was a small hotel in what seemed to be a residential area of the city. It was just over a block away from a reasonably priced chinese carryout restuarant where we bought most of our meals.
When we'd get back to the hotel at the end of a long day hiking around the capital we'd take a short walk over to the restaurant, avoiding the drunks that had a disconcerting habit of yelling "Kill the whitey!" just when our family was walking by. Once in the restaurant we in turn would yell at the cashier. We weren't really familiar with the concept of a bullet proof glass restaurant and thought we had to yell so we could be heard on the other side of the glass. Then we'd go back to our hotel room to eat before hitting the roof-top pool.
Well, most of us would hit the pool. My older brother always stayed in the room masturbating.
That seems to be one of the big things that sticks out in his mind about the trip. "Remember when I'd stay in the room watching tv instead of going to the pool? -- I was just jerking off." The biggest thing I remember about the trip wasn't even in Washington Dc. It was in Midway Airport in Chicago - a men's room in Midway Airport - and it was the inspiration for my first public art display.

I walked into the bathroom and found all the urinals occupied. Naturally I took a stall. I threw open the door, and that's when I saw it.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:03 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

May 03, 2005

Tuesday Morning

Monday's dumpers must have taken a queue from the guys this weekend; along with the pile of scrap wood, plaster, broken cement blocks and yard waste and gas lawnmower they dropped off a wash machine and a large, inoperable, TV.

If anyone wants anything, don't hesitate to let me know.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 08:42 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

May 02, 2005

Monday's Garbage

I was gone for the weekend, so I don't know exactly when it arrived, but out in the empty lot behind my house this morning I caught a glimpse of a disassembled gas grill. That along with a white leather chair (that looks to be in usuable condition), two (yes, 2!) large screen televisions and a inoperable wash machine took refuge in the nearby lot.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 08:51 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack